


Work The Room

by cuddlepunk



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Crossdressing, Lingerie, M/M, OH YEAH LOOK AT THEM TAGS, Secks, Sexual Content, Smut, close enough, is there a sex tag?, patrick wears a corset and you should read this, they do the secks, what do i tag sex as though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6585868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a cloudy Friday night and you look like my next regret. After apologetically strolling into the nearest run down club, the first few acts to meet my sore eyes do little to ease the ache. You, however, you could be just what I don’t want but need. You’re thick cough medicine and minty lipsticks, in the best possible way.</p><p>His shiny red ballet shoes tap on the floor to the beat of the dance music when he finally returns. Hiked up ruby skirts pulled down swiftly, hair swept back with skill. His voice is sultry and clear. “You’re coming home with me tonight. Follow me. What was that you mentioned about a vinyl collection?”</p><p>or, Patrick dances at a club and Pete is lucky enough to tap that. Patrick in a corset and a skirt. Need I say more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work The Room

**Author's Note:**

> THIS TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE
> 
> ABSORB IT INTO YOU
> 
> LET IT WASH OVER YOU LIKE A SEA OF BUTTER
> 
> OH MAN

It’s a cloudy Friday night and you look like my next regret. After apologetically strolling into the nearest run down club, the first few acts to meet my sore eyes do little to ease the ache. You, however, you could be just what I don’t want but need. You’re thick cough medicine and minty lipsticks.

Spin me a web with your hips, candy-apple skirts slowly creeping up your thighs. My dull browns meet your phosphorescent sapphires in a fleeting, perfectly polluted moment. You're the most expertised dancer in this whole unsanitary ballroom. I did not sign up for this. 

You move with meticulous struts and arbitrary, circular motions. I sip venomous peachy poisons and watch you wreck the stage. With only a frilly devil costume and a robust, merushino smile to cloak you, my eyes follow every seam and stitch. A bit of pudge lines your figure, only adding to the package. Chubby is hot. I want to inhale the scent of rubbing alcohol and foundation off the back of your neck. I want the feeling of my bristly fingers on your sugary peach hair. And by the way your eyes seem to keep catching mine, it looks like you want it too.

As I examine each perfect sway you create, it seems as though you return a stare at my scratchy leather jacket and joy division sweater. What could you possibly find in my calloused fingers around a wine glass, or the bags under my eyes? You're one to behold, set on a pedestal, someone to admire. I'm a starving artist, and an unattractive one at that. 

You move in step to flamboyant party music, each bass drop sending you into a new frenzy of arching backs and extending fingers. Move fluidly, each flush and sweep moving the whole crowd with you. Somehow, I don't mind the pop. You look like the kind of person to have a good ear. I fantasize about jamming out with you in a gross Chicago bar. Would you get up on the bar’s tables and spin me another story? Your eyes lock again with mine. Your songs will end soon.

The beat slows down, each individual layer to the song leaving my ears one by one. Your varied gyroscopic waves and thrusting hips becoming less enthralled, but more precise, if that's even possible. You finish big, breathless and perfectly posed. After collecting bountiful applause, I myself give a few hearty claps, you step down from the stage.

Weaving through the crowd, you gratefully accept praise from onlookers, making your way to the bar. I can't blame you, after a performance like that. Silvery liquids coast past your rosy lips, the poison settling in the back of your throat. You catch my gaze once more, then striding over to me.

I hide my discomfort under the rim of my wine glass, hoping to whatever powers there may be that I won't mess up this encounter. You are honey hair and soft cheeks, I'm more of an unconditioned collection of locks and chronic dry skin. What can I say, I'm a mess. I re-adjust my dusty jacket over my sharp shoulders, trying to share the warmth gracing my cheeks with that of the rest of my body.

You coast across false food floors, each step spinning your hips. Electric, ultramarine eyes reach the outline of my neck, wondering what’s hidden under tight shirt confines. I do my best to veil my fear of failure under the collar of my jacket, coughing off what insecurity was left to bounce around my throat and mind. Ruby flats tip-tap right up to the toes of my boots.

Voice much deeper than I imagined, I have to admit, but still undeniably symphonic, a melodious edge. “You caught my eye. Only the best people do. I have quite the eyes.” Damn straight, I think to myself. Another sip of glimmering venom slides its way down your throat. “Do you have a story, or just a pretty face?” He gives a sharp, slight grin. 

A stutter leaves my rough lips, as if abasement wasn’t already shrouding my every action. You softly chuckle, a rosy, harmonic tune sending red ink splotches to the apples of my cheeks. For a moment, I wish I could look to the ether through this dingy bar’s slowly collapsing ceiling. I take another swig, knowing I’ll have to open my mouth now if I ever plan on winning you over.

I speak of the first time I ever picked up a bass, my shitty highschool, of my friends and enemies, the sub-par tale that is my life. I talk of wanting to start a musical group, and my love of writing. Spinning tales with fingertips and feathered pens just as you do with rolling hips and concise movement. Your eyes dilate with each drop of art, the only untainted element of this joint being your gaze. 

A twinkling laughter emerges from your vocal cords, false lashes trying to hide how unimpressed you are. “You and I have more in common than we’d both like to admit.” Voice heavy with the after effects of performing, puddles of disco ball alcohol sitting under your tongue and coasting around your systems.

“How so?” I’m caught between sinking into the floor and latching myself onto your soft skin. We have nothing in common. I'm a shitty musician with no talent or sense of fashion, I don't exist. You're an artist with a beautiful face, confidence, style. You're talkative and calm, I'm about to throw up on your glittering bodice…

“It seems as though we have the same music taste. Nice shirt, by the way.” I glance down at my sweater, trying to rip my eyes away from your sides, your exposed neck, the small of your back, “Although you seem to be a little bit more shy, I can tell you're an intellectual. The writing doesn't surprise me.” Or you soft arms, the slight curve of your thighs, losing myself in rosy red cheeks-

“Y-yeah, I guess so. I'm not any good at it, though. Are you into writing?” Just look at your eyes, or my glass, or your buttercream hair, tousled and slipping through the spaces between my fingers. Or, you know, your eyes. Your eyes are good too. 

You roll your neck. “I’m alright with a pen, but I think I’m better in bed. I’m pretty good at putting words to music, though.” 

Suddenly I’m more focused on your eyes than the dips of his collarbones, leaning in and letting my voice carry farther than it has all night. “Do you play anything?”

He shrugs it off. “I can kinda play guitar, I’m shit at piano, and I took trumpet in school. I’m not too bad at drums, though.” 

“That’s awesome. I don’t think I caught your name?”

“They call me Soul here. It’s Patrick.” 

Your name is Patrick now, huh? A somehow ordinary name expanding to describe someone indescribable, no collection of words great enough to describe your - his - Patrick’s body, or his mind, or your ideas and Patrick’s - I don’t even know who I’m talking about anymore. Patrick. 

“Pete.” I drill my eyes shut for a moment, indulging in darkness and ignorance before turning my view to his teeth sliding against his lower lip. His makeup shines under the uv rays above us.

“I like you, Pete.” His topaz irises find pressing matters in the crowd. “I’ll be back if you wait, I can promise you that.”

I nod in farewell before he coasts past me, the scent of liquid foundation and the air of confidence swirling around my contrasting form. The floorboards creak under my boods, unlevel and disorderly. Suddenly resting my glass on neglected bar tables seems a little too questionable. He knows the nukes planted here, all the tips and tricks. I’m a stranger in an insensitive, insolent community. Bring me peace and a handbook, bulleted lists of rules, regulations, and directions. I’ll study your customs, the way everyone dresses from the lace lingerie to the pedophile facial hair, the food you eat from the expired wine coolers to the utterly unsafe house salads, even your lingo, the code words and secrets. 

Sweeping across the room, he’s a slippery skate on this ocean floor. Swimming up to anyone interested, instantly brushing far too close for it to be innocent. His fingers crawl across shoulders that haven’t been washed in weeks, breathes in the breath of those unwilling to leave a cigarette for a stick of gum. Dealing with those only out for his body, out for the thrill and the memories. Bragging rights, perhaps, or simply the enjoyment. Up in your business, hands across someone else’s hips, playful glances and staged flattering. He never treated me like that. The difference between a real human being and another dollar bill has become so clear in his mind that he sorts without thinking. I hope I’m the former. 

As sworn, I kept my seat at the bar, usually sliding my discomfort or otherwise shaky conditions under the screen of my phone as I pretend to answer emails. Soon glances in his direction turn into lingering eye locks. He’ll be back soon. 

His shiny red ballet shoes tap on the floor to the beat of the dance music when he finally returns. Hiked up ruby skirts pulled down swiftly, hair swept back with skill. His voice is sultry and clear. “You’re coming home with me tonight. Follow me. What was that you mentioned about a vinyl collection?”

I’m pulled along by manicured nails to a hot cherry car. My mouth is open and rambling when he expertly revs up and pulls out of the tightly packed parking space. This is the inner works of the city, a labyrinth of back alleyways and illegal u-turns. He knows it like the back of his hand.

City lights pass us by like the desires of those around us. Always there, not always picked up on, nor cared about. But sometimes, it’s just too intriguing to pass up observing. Blue condo windows cast lilac shadows over his crimson chestpiece. I think this is exactly what I need and don’t need at the same time. Semantics. I’m never too sure of these things.

I try to ignore the part of me urging to reach across and shove a hand between his thighs, the one causing me to tip my head in his direction, lips aching for warm flesh. He looks far too experienced, too relaxed to put up with me. I want to feel my chapped lips against his cherry chapstick, rosy cheeks and glossy mouth, panting and heated… I haven’t even gotten a taste yet. Suddenly I’m just a little jealous of all those he swept up against. Ah, well, I’ll get my turn soon.

He leads me into apartment building lobbies, chasing me up wooden stairs and down long hallways. The place isn’t bad, that’s for sure. He has a sense of style, expectations and standards. I can’t believe I meet them.

One hand shoves brass keys into a doorknob while the other finally splays across my chest and creeps over my shoulder. A door is opened, two forms crashing into dark rooms and colliding together. His breath tastes like fruity gum and sugary liquor. 

Mouth inviting and open, relaxed and slow. He swirls slowly, hands pressing me into his front. His sides are plush, my fingertips eagerly pressing in. Stomach soft against mine, breaths pushing into my chest. He tastes like heaven and honey. 

He buries his head in my shoulder once, softly brushing his lips against what skin was exposed, before pulling back begrudgingly. I sigh, the loss of hips against my palms is a large one. Soon, a dimmed bronze glow shed light on the space before me. Soft beige rugs, creamy grey walls, and… a really extensive collection of records. Not to mention a really classic looking player. 

The corset is shiny and tight. “I heard you were into Joy Division.” He says, magenta nails scraping across shelves of packed records. He has to reach up for it. A line of ivory skin is revealed at the small of his back. I lick my lips.

He giggles, cardinal lips carving into a snarky grin. “This isn’t a look-not-touch kind of situation. Come here.” Shining black records are laid down, slight needles digging into ridges before a perfectly gritty noise erupts from the room. His back is pliable and toasty, just as the rest of him. Somehow, it still surprises me.

Rumbling bass lines and sandy drum beats flow through his form, backing up against me, and man, suddenly that corset feels like it would look a little better on the floor. I slide open palms up and down almost rubbery sides, glossy and artificial. The music is all original, rolling and free. He’s an original. Outfits have no right to get in the way.

I open my mouth, shuddering when his head rolls back into my collarbones. “Can I… take this off?” I grasp around his midsection, only a slight give under my calloused fingertips.

“Of course.” He breathes, silky hands guiding me to his waist.

I unlace ribbony bows, hot pink satin falling around his hips. It stretches quite easily, a satisfied breath coming from him. I help him slip it over his head, and as soon as I see him, I wonder why the fuck he would cover any of it up?

He’s perfection as far as I’m concerned, cushiony sides and kissable shoulders. My hands scan up and down his back as my lips reach his neck, resisting a bite. Delicate fingers brush the leather jacket off my shoulders, settling up under my sweater and playing with the edges of sharp hips. My fingertips press into downy skin while he toys with the worn leather belt around my waist. He pushes me back, chest against mine, before leading me around. His hands are warm and inviting.

His bedroom is illuminated only by the resplendent rays of city light filtering in between sheer curtains over wide third story windows. Bedsheets and fluffy comforters tucked in messily, an otherwise clean environment. He rolls into bed, honey locks hitting satin pillowcases. I’m pulled in, propping myself up over him. He looks up at me through half closed eyes, hair a hot mess on the bed. Hands crawl up under my shirt and lift it over my head, unnecessary clothing discarded easily. His tight little skirt is unzipped and cast off, my own skinny jeans rightfully forgotten. He’s beautiful and dazzling and I can’t believe he’s letting me do this. 

Summery blonde hair smells like hairspray and passion fruit, smooth and easy to run fingers through. Body easily explored, sensitive, full thighs and velvety shoulders. Wide hips found under my hands, squeezed and abused as I grind down against him. Beaten up lips part, a beautiful noise escaping, hot breath hitting my neck. He pulls me down, nearly moaning against the corner of my lips before restlessly opening his mouth and pushing his way in.

I allow it openly, pushing up against the tent under his silky red panties, and letting him mewl into my mouth as much as he desires. His fingertip press hard into my back while my hands hold him down, my dull fingernails on his gossamer shoulders. It's unsure and heated, a little wobbly in an endearing way, and we're both enjoying the feel.

When his hand reaches down to his mostly hard cock, I trail kisses down his neck to his chest, pulling his hand away after a few strokes. “Jesus - fuck, could you, please,” I hum against his doughy lower belly before looking up to him and licking a stripe down my palm. His cheeks are flushed with crimson, soft hands taking fistfuls of sheets and duvets. 

I didn't take piano, bass, and guitar all those years for nothing. Filling up countless journals with writings and ideas isn't all for naught. My hands have been wrapped around the necks of instruments and pushing down on keys for hours of every single day of my useless life. I have the decade old callouses to prove it. I'm not good at a lot, I admit that, but anyone can see that I’m good with my hands. Time to put my skills to good use.

He goes wide eyed before closing, rolling his head. “Oh, where did you -” I pick up the pace, deliberately trying to interrupt him. What can I say, I'm a man of music. And his shaky breathing is surely music to my ears. “Where did you learn to, to do, that?”

“Orchestra class. Sitting in the bathroom during lunch every day in highschool and writing. Whatever. Enjoy it.”

When my other hand grabs ahold of his thigh, his breath hitches, and he bucks up into my hand, breathing rapidly. “My t-thighs are.. Really, really sensitive.” I take that as my cue to my other hand down the front of his body once more, before sinking down, my other hand still making steady strokes.

His curvaceous thighs are easy to sink teeth into, pressing kisses up and down whatever I can get my mouth on. He twitches under the touch, so easily jostled. Hitting specific spots makes his breathing stop and his back to arch, strangled noises bouncing off the back of his throat. Complying gladly, I ghost my fingertips over his head before pressing an open mouth to whatever feels right. 

I have him unraveling in my hands, back arching and breaths jagged. I'm better with my hands than my mouth, but I still let my head bob a few times before continuing with tight strokes and pressing my other hand hard into his hips. 

It’s only a matter of time before he finishes with a harsh, throaty noise. He squirms as I push him through it for good measure, shifting up into my hand and whining with every move. It’s a blur of his hand down my pants and I’m over the edge too, letting the forefront of my mind bleed into his satin sheets.

We drift off into silky pillowcases. His body fits well into my arms, sliding in next to me like he’s meant to be there. Maybe he is, we’ll find out. His sheer curtains snake around outside blue light, whispers of starry nights casting across his bed. City sounds seep through his walls in a flurry of comfort and the feeling of home, even in cars and sirens. His hand in mine is becoming as familiar as the low rumble of conversation outside. I’ve never felt anything like it. Morning greets us in warm candlelight hues and early cuddles. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some nights my skin is melting off quicker than her panties and my eyes are bloodier than the bartender’s Mary. Some nights, I sneak into a beauty’s apartment at hours of the morning untold. That beauty follows a series of events, whatever they may be, from murders to mojitos. I was lucky enough to leave the next morning with a new number in my phone and another lonely heart willing to find solace in my own. My definition of a good night.


End file.
